GRAND THEFT AUTO: BAD TO THE BONE
by A-Fiasco
Summary: The midwest underworld continues to burn as the Black Mask Killer and his allies continue their hostile takeover of Central City...
1. Chapter 1

**GRAND THEFT AUTO: BAD TO THE BONE**

**A/N: **To Rockstar Games which produced this great series, when are we going to get a GTA set in CHICAGO? We've had both New York and Miami featured twice each, L.A. and Las Vegas in San Andreas, and now we're back in New York for IV. For the readers, I'm using Central City as the default for the Windy City but I'm too lazy to come up with a gazillion names for locations. Same with cars, guns, etc. Otherwise, enjoy the story and please submit a review, ok?

**Disclaimer: **Again to Rockstar Games, please don't sue me over this fanfic. First, thanks to this crappy economy, I'm broke. Second, all characters and situations I borrowed from previous games in the series are your intellectual property. So, please, if you're going to sic your lawyers on anyone it should be code monkeys who illegally produce mods on your licensed products. 'Nuff said.

Louie Forelli finished off his second helping of spaghetti and meatballs. Life was good, his crews were profitable, and the FBI was more concerned with taking down terrorists than busting made men of respect. He remembered last night's score. They jacked a diamond exchange in the Loop, a haul of twenty million in ice, and giving a smack down on an uppity cur in the process. The stupid sonuvabitch never saw it coming. A smile creased his face. The Outfit always got its slice of the cheddar and the size of that slice is non-negotiable. Dumping that jerk-off in O'Hare's long-term parking was a pleasure. No one dictated terms to the Forellis. Not that prick Mayor Dooley, not Commissioner Summerdale of the Central City Police Dept., and certainly not some cheap-ass street hood. If you wanted respect, you didn't roll over for nobody.

"Hey, paisan! How about another round of Nardini, eh?" shouted Louie as he waved around an empty fluted glass.

While the don of the Forelli family waited for another bottle of grappa to be delivered to his table, he looked around the private dining room. Seated with him were his consigliere, Matteo Russo, and his sotto capo Gaetano Greco. The don was comfortably attired in a Sergio Tacchini tracksuit and black loafers.

Matteo wore an Armani grey pinstriped suit with a lavender tie and matching pocket square. Gaetano was also smartly dressed in an Ozwald Boateng charcoal suit and light blue tie. Both men had cups of steaming espresso before them. Only Don Forelli was eating lunch. They would eat when the don left to see his mistress. At the entrance of the private dining area were two other men. They were uniform in appearance with their off-the-rack suits, wraparound sunglasses, and the obvious bulges of their shoulder holsters. Both guards had scowls on their faces. They were counting down the minutes to 2PM; that's when they would leave the 200 East Supper Club and take the boss to his favorite mistress in Lincoln Park.

As the senior leaders of the Forelli family ate and discussed business, a discreet knock was heard at the door. The guards grimaced at this; it was understood by the club's staff that the don didn't want any interruptions when he took his lunch. When they opened the door, a FedEx delivery man stood before them with a package in his hand. The delivery man stood six feet, two inches tall. His face was obscured by the hat and the Ray-Bans he wore. The guards noted that the package was medium-sized, had the correct labels consistent with the FedEx shipping company, and didn't make any ticking noises. The delivery man held out a clipboard and a pen.

"Is this where Mr. Greco is? His secretary told me he'd be here. If he's busy, could one of you gentlemen sign for this?"

The guard glared at the FedEx driver. The FedEx driver shrugged in a 'what can I say' gesture. On the wall, the clock read 1:55 PM. After taking the clipboard, the guard scrawled his signature, accepted the package, and returned the clipboard to the driver. The guard nodded his head towards the door in a dismissive gesture.

"Ok, you're finished. Aren't you on a schedule or something?" asked the guard.

"Something like that. Have a nice day." The FedEx driver exited the dining room.

The guard instructed his partner to watch the door while he took the package to the sotto capo. Probably his monthly shipment of Viagra, the goon thought to himself. When he approached the table, the senior leaders of the Forelli family were laughing at one of the don's jokes. Don Forelli made a come hither gesture with his hand to see what the man needed.

"Gino, what's this?" asked the Don.

"FedEx just delivered this. It's addressed to Mr. Greco."

Gaetano made a sour face. He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and finished the last of his espresso.

"Don't worry, Louie. It's probably those dossiers I asked for on those jurors. I left instructions for Eileen to forward those to me here."

The don nodded his head and made a mental note to invite his consigliere's secretary to dinner. He has his eye on the twenty something redhead for awhile now. Gaetano wouldn't mind. They had shared women before. It's just that the don didn't need Viagra to rise to the occasion.

Gaetano accepted the package from the guard and proceeded to open it. When the strip was completely torn off, a pop was heard. The consigliere looked up, horrified. That's when all hell broke loose.

The M84 Stun Grenade exploded with a brilliant white flash that streamed forth and blinded everyone inside the dining room, including the guards.

At the same time the grenade's explosion deafened everyone with 180 decibels of white noise that disoriented the Forelli men. Blood oozed from noses and ears. One of the guards tore off his sunglasses and fumbled with his 9mm Glock 17 handgun. The mirrors and all the glass within the private dining area had shattered. There were screams and the sound of wailing sirens could barely be heard. Then the sound of heavy boots crunching on broken glass.

"Remember me, punks?"

The man who pretended to be a FedEx driver had returned. He had changed from his uniform into olive-drab fatigues. He wore a Torq 61 armored vest, carried a Knight's Armament Company 6.5mm Personal Defense Weapon that looked like a cut-down M16, several 30-round magazines, and a AMT AutoMag IV chambered for .45 Winchester Magnum seated in a thigh holster. His face was hidden by a black hockey mask.

The first guard tried to shoot the intruder with his Glock 17 but wasn't fast enough. The OD-clad intruder flicked the selector switch to 3-shot burst and squeezed the trigger twice. The 6.5mm jacketed hollow-points tore through the man's chest and head. The guard's body jerked and twitched then fell mercifully to floor.

"Miller, is that you?" The don's voice trembled. His pants were now soaked with urine and pooled around his feet.

Miller slung the PDW over his shoulder and flicked open a Microtech HALO III switchblade. The second guard charged at him; Miller side-stepped to the left of the goon and fired off a vicious side kick to the man's knee. The goon's blood curdling scream could be heard all the way outside on Chestnut Street. His knee shattered, the goon collapsed onto his back. In a single motion Miller drew his AutoMag, fired twice, and re-holstered his sidearm.

"Miller, please, it was all just a misunderstanding." This from Matteo Russo whose suit was now blackened and in tatters. He was shaking uncontrollably. They had underestimated this man. Now they had to reason with him.

The black mask turned his way. "Sorry, Russo. Unlike the governor, I still practice the death penalty. You're overruled, counselor. Now accept your sentence, you prick rat bastard."

Matteo futilely tried to crawl away from this angel of death. He only made it a few feet before Miller smashed his boot onto the consigliere's back. Matteo screamed even louder as Miller plunged the tanto-shaped blade into the man's skull. Matteo's eyes went wide then became lifeless.

Don Forelli was curled up in a fetal position. Tears were now streaming down his eyes. Mewling noises issued forth from his mouth. The stink of feces and piss in the ruined dining area was overpowering. Miller retrieved his knife, wiped it on Matteo's expensive suit, and advanced towards the helpless don.

Gaetano Greco had sufficiently recovered to brush the dust off his suit and comb back his hair. Both Miller and Gaetano looked at each other. Then Gaetano nodded his head once. Miller nodded back then took out a squeeze bottle full of kerosene. The black masked killer popped the cap and dumped the contents all over the don's shaking body. Dropping the canister, he pulled a chromed Zippo from his pants. Miller flicked the Zippo once and tossed it onto the now sobbing Don Forelli. The fire totally consumed his flesh. Don Forelli was now just a part of Central City's bloody past.

"All right, Gaetano. You got Forelli's empire. I want my money. Don't give me any bullshit about shares in a property in Florida. That scam's for the dipshits coming out of Fox River. Hand it over or I'll make you extra crispy."

The new leader just smiled confidently at Miller. Gaetano reached underneath the table and removed a Zero Halliburton briefcase. The gangster flicked open the locks and revealed the twenty million in diamonds inside. Miller gestured for Gaetano to move away from the briefcase. Gaetano merely grinned at his associate's caution.

"We have an agreement, Miller. I trust that you are satisfied."

Miller grunted in agreement. He secured the locks on the case and lifted it from the table. He started to walk away from Gaetano then stopped. Miller turned back to the other man. Gaetano looked confused. Their business was concluded.

"I almost forgot, Gaetano. You slapped around a young girl working at the Four Dragons Casino a couple of years ago. It wasn't enough of a turn-on. So you sodomized her too."

Gaetano's eyes widened with fear. His palms got sweaty. His started hammering in his chest. Dear God, no…

"She might have been serving cocktails that night, douchebag, but she was one of Woozie's girls. His youngest daughter in fact."

Miller rammed his re-opened Microtech switchblade and disemboweled the older man. The look of shock on the older man's face was priceless. This job was getting more satisfying every day. After taking a special 'trophy' for Woozie, Miller wiped the blade down and locked it back closed. Then he took out his Nokia and speed-dialed a number.

"Honored Uncle, the Forellis have been sent to the Seven Hells. The city is ours."

The cackling laughter of the Lucky Mole warmed the black masked killer's heart. This was just the opening round.


	2. Exit Stage Left

Miller exited the restaurant through the rear door. Outside, he scanned the street for any immediate threats. The 6.5mm PDW was carried in the position of port arms, the muzzle of the carbine pointed skyward. People were still fleeing helter skelter, some even stumbling onto the street. The Black Mask Killer knew that the CCPD would be here soon. Many of those responding officers were on the Forelli payroll and will be very upset that their other source of income had been torched. He stoically watched as a bus rolled over a pedestrian who had tripped into the street. The Motorola radio clipped onto his tactical vest squelched twice. Miller pressed the talk button.

"Go ahead, Big O. I need a traffic update."

Parked a mile away in a Mitsubishi FM330 truck, Big O monitored several Bearcat scanners as well as 20" HDTV monitors. The 300-pound Nigerian was part of Miller's crew and the resident technical genius. There wasn't any computer language or OS that he wasn't fluent with. On the side, Big O maintained a series of 'data havens' in neutral countries that didn't have close ties with the U.S., U.K., or the U.N. Even the bad guys needed a place to cache their 'cooked books', their blackmail photos, and off-shore bank account numbers. He raked in a small fortune every month selling memory space on his servers and the current waiting list had over 2,000 potential customers who wanted to sign up. Miller had him spying on the cops via the city's video surveillance network. Big O was also busy disrupting the traffic lights in a two-mile radius.

"Bwana, the cops are jammed in five separate pile-ups. CCPD H.Q. at 11th and State isn't issuing any new orders through central dispatch. However, there are a number of uniformed po-po's who have abandoned their squad cars and pursuing you on foot. They're carrying standard-issue stuff; mainly M&P .45 automatics and Ithaca 12-guage riot guns. Nothing that you can't handle."

Miller nodded his head and thumbed the talk button.

"All right, O. Keep me posted on those flatfoots' movements. I'm going to ghost as soon as I'm sure these numbnuts won't follow me. Signal the rest of the crew to watch my back."

The Black Mask Killer moved from vehicle to vehicle as he cautiously made his way west along Delaware Place towards Washington Square. His eyes darted from side-to-side as he scanned the sidewalks and roofs for any cops. Miller was about to leave the cover of a Chevy Tahoe when the roar of the shotgun caught him by surprise. Double-ought buckshot shattered the windshield and peppered Miller with broken glass.

Several CCPD officers wearing Level-III vests and baseball caps with checkered bands took up positions in and around Washington Square. Miller knew these jerk-offs were trying to pin him down until SWAT arrived. They were in for a very rude surprise.

"This is the CCPD! Lay down your weapons and get on the ground! Failure to comply with these orders will result in the use of lethal force!"

Miller smiled underneath his mask. It was always nice to know that some things didn't change like CCPD's SOP.

The Black Mask Killer pulled the pin on the Czech-made R4 frag grenade then launched it towards the patrolman with the bullhorn. It spun in a lazy arc, bounced off the roof of a Honda Accord, and rolled into a steaming pile of dog crap.

BOOM!

The grenade went off with shrapnel and dog crap flying everywhere. The cop with the bullhorn was shredded by the metal storm that engulfed him. Other cops were flattened by the concussion wave that surged forth from the blast. Miller stood up from behind cover and fired a series of three-shot bursts. His mags were loaded with Black Talon ammunition and designed specifically to penetrate body armor. The first cop he aimed at took a burst through the midsection and crashed through the glass doors of the Newberry Library. Next, he killed a second cop with a well-aimed headshot. The cop's baseball cap popped up like a water-filled bottle rocket. The cop's head burst like an over-ripe watermelon. Bits of bone and flesh sprayed a parking attendant who stumbled over a curb then took off running. A blue-haired old lady driving a Buick jammed on her brakes and side-swiped the parking attendant right into the path of a Mack truck. The parking attendant died the instant his skull impacted the front grille of the Mack truck. Miller shot yet another cop hiding behind a black Mercedes S-class sedan. The 6.5mm bullets tore through the Mercedes punching holes in both rear passenger doors. An agonized scream rewarded Miller's ears as the cop tried to staunch his flowing blood.

The pop-pop-pop of the cops' .45 automatics was joined with the deeper boom-boom of the Ithaca 12-guage shotguns. Miller dove behind a Streets & Sanitation garbage truck as .45 hollow-points and double-ought buckshot pelted the statue beside him. Pieces of stone snapped off then crumbled as the police retaliated for their murdered brethren. The barrage lasted another five, ten minutes as cops reloaded their weapons and continued to unload them against Miller's hiding place. Miller's radio squelched twice, vying for the masked killer's attention.

"Go ahead and give me the bad news, O."

Miller pulled out his AutoMag and shot an officer foolish enough to charge his position. He hoped that O could help clear him an exit route. The park was rapidly filling up with pigs but he was the one who was going to get slaughtered if he didn't get the flock out of here.

"It's bad. Central Dispatch finally got word to SWAT. The pile-ups are still in place but Captain Allston's a crafty bastard. Instead of the usual bus or van, they're taking to the air. They'll be on top of you shortly. Forty of 'em armed 'n armored. Twenty carrying 10mm Heckler & Koch MP5s, eight with Colt CAR-15s, six with M14 enhanced battle rifles, the rest with M16A2s. Miller, these guys aren't screwing around. Ditch the heat or you'll be buried there."

The sound of approaching choppers was getting closer. Miller took out a pair of small binoculars to get a better look at the SWAT team's approach. He saw the Blackhawks with the CCPD and SWAT markings. Six of 'em flying in an arrowhead formation. It was time to pull a Houdini.

"Thanks, O. You get rolling. I'll see you at the safehouse."

Miller slapped in a fresh clip in his AutoMag. He checked his watch.

The Black Masked Killer knew if he was going to break out of this trap, then now was the time. He pressed the talk button on his Motorola.

"Broken Arrow, repeat, Broken Arrow. Fire at will."

Several figures in coveralls and balaclavas held up FIM-92 Stinger surface-to-air missile launchers. They lined up their targets, waited for a lock-on tone, then fired. The Stingers leapt from their launchers into the afternoon sky. The missiles contrails corkscrewed then rammed their prey. Four of the six Blackhawk choppers fell to earth as fiery debris. The remaining helicopters broke off their approach and retreated to safety.

While the cops were busy getting their asses kicked in, Miller took advantage of the lull in the fighting. He slipped off his mask and tactical vest then zipped himself into Dickey coveralls and Doc Marten boots. The rest of his gear he placed in a black duffel bag. Taking a look around, Miller could see the cops panicking as their back-up arrived in tiny, scorched pieces. He added to the confusion by popping smoke grenades and tossing them into the middle of the park. Big, thick clouds of white smoke obscured the vision of the remaining police officers. Miller stood up, slung the duffel over his shoulder, and started walking south on Clark Street.

Minutes later, a 2008 Shelby Mustang GT500KR screeched to a stop at the corner of Clark and Eerie. A stunning blonde in a violet peasant blouse and Victor jeans opened the passenger door. She smiled wickedly at Miller.

"Hi, honey. Been waiting long, handsome?"

Miller leaned over and French-kissed the sultry blonde. He knew what turned this farmer's daughter on.

"As far as you're concerned, baby, the answer's no. As for Central City, the wait's over. Our time is now. The other syndicates will either join the Vicious Circle or they will die. I hope they choose the latter. I need the practice."

The Black Mask Killer entered the Mustang and rode off into the twilight. The fires burning from the wreckage in Washington Square could be seen clear across Lake Michigan.


	3. AfterAction BBQ

The fires in Washington Park were still burning as Lieutenant "Big Jim" Wynne rolled onto the scene in a tricked-out 2008 Dodge Charger SXT modified for police work. He took another puff of his Garcia y Vega cigar as he surveyed the carnage before him. Over the last ten years as the commander of the CCPD's Major Crimes Unit, Lieutenant Wynne thought he had seen it all. He had forgotten just how dangerous the Black Mask Killer really was. Big Jim parked his light sandstone metallic painted sports coupe at the corner of Dearborn Street and Delaware Place. Before he left his vehicle, he placed onto the dashboard a placard that had "Official POLICE Business" printed on it with the CCPD logo.

Big Jim stretched his six-foot, eight-inch frame outside his Charger. At fifty, he still had the build of an Olympic power lifter but his midsection was going soft. Too many doughnuts in the morning and too many filet mignons at Ditka's were going to send him to an early grave if a skell's bullet didn't kill him first. Lieutenant Wynne enjoyed the finer things in life from tailor-made suits to Victoria's Secret supermodels on his arm at formal events. Thanks to a trust fund and some shrewd moves on Wall Street, the lead detective of the Major Crimes Unit enjoyed a comfortable life. Every penny of his money was earned; he didn't take bribes from the dealers, the Outfit, or even the crooked politicians that infested the city and the county like rats on a carcass. He had a formidable reputation on the street as a gunslinger; there were a thousand and one stories of how he sparked a bad guy with his SIG GSR .45 Automatic. But he lived by the rule that if a skell decided to give himself up, he wasn't going to shoot the poor sonuvabitch in the head. Big Jim Wynne was one tough cop but he was a fair one. He placed his fedora on his head and walked over to where Captain Mike Allston of the now-decimated CCPD SWAT stood over the bodies of his fallen officers.

The CCPD SWAT commander was livid with rage. Mike Allston and Jim Wynne started out as patrolmen at Area 5 Headquarters in the Austin-Cragin region where they made their bones by nabbing a young 'Bong' Marley before he became the leader of the Grand Austin Posse. They both made SWAT and served together for many years until Big Jim received his gold star as a detective.

Mike never forgave his former partner for leaving SWAT and moving into the detective ranks. This was the first time seeing each other since the mid-90s.

Big Jim strode towards his ex-partner and extended his hand towards the SWAT commander. Captain Allston gave the detective a glare that could melt polar ice. Lieutenant Wynne lowered his arm to his side and took another puff of his cigar. The detective waited until the SWAT commander acknowledged his presence at the crime scene.

"What the hell are you doing here, Lieutenant Wynne?"

Big Jim blew a smoke ring into Captain Allston's face. It irritated the SWAT commander so much that his fists started to clench at his sides. Big Jim just smiled at him and waved his cigar.

"Commissioner Summerdale called me in to investigate just how you managed to fly into a well-planned ambush. You should be glad MCU was called into this mess and not Internal Affairs. It's not like you to charge into a situation without knowing your opposition first. You're getting sloppy Mighty Mouse. You need to tighten up your game, partner."

Captain Allston screamed in rage and charged his ex-partner with raised fists. Big Jim expected this reaction, sidestepped the enraged SWAT commander, and tripped him with one of his Bally loafers. The SWAT commander stumbled onto the concrete hard. Lieutenant Wynne took out a lead-filled sap and smacked his cursing ex-partner behind the ear. Then the detective smacked him a second time. Satisfied that Captain Allston was out cold, Big Jim waved over a uniformed patrolman.

"Jeff, call the paramedics over and have them transport Captain Allston to Northwestern Medical Center. Before you hand him over for transport, secure his sidearm and any other weapons he may have on his person. Take two other officers and sequester sleeping beauty here until I can question him. Consider yourselves detailed to MCU until I tell you differently. No other SWAT officers or any other detectives see Captain Allston without my say-so. You savvy, Jeff?"

The blue-uniformed patrolman nodded once and radioed for assistance with the unconscious SWAT commander. Lieutenant Wynne walked around Washington Park, occasionally picking up brass casings as he made his way around all the wreckage of the Blackhawk helicopters. The Central City Fire Department put out all the major fires and their Hazardous Materials crew was busy making sure that the area was free from any chemical or biological threats. The CCPD had their hands full keeping back the crowds, photographing and collecting evidence, and assisting the seriously wounded into waiting ambulances. He grimaced once as he heard the screech of tires and the smell of burning rubber as a 1968 Ford Mustang 390 Fastback in racing Highland Green stopped alongside him. His current partner, Sergeant Ronnie Mendoza, made another dramatic entrance.

Detective Mendoza stood tall at five feet exactly, even wearing high heels. She was attired today in a black leather jacket, a silk Vera Wang blouse, and a revealing black leather miniskirt. He noted also the Bianchi shoulder holster, the H&K USP chambered for .40 Smith & Wesson, and the extra magazines. Big Jim knew Ronnie also carried a .44 Charter Arms Bulldog Pug revolver in a pancake holster at the small of her back. Ronnie looked like Tila Tequila and was often mistaken for her in the local bars and nightclubs. She often took advantage of the dumbasses who thought they really had a shot at love with a celebrity. On the streets, she was known as 'The Mauler'; more than one scumbag was beaten to within an inch of their miserable lives by her. Ronnie loved to break balls whether it was the bad guys or her co-workers. His partner knew how to beat men down.

"So, LT, what's the 411?" Ronnie had mischievous look in her eyes.

Lieutenant Wynne finished the last of his Garcia y Vega. He flicked the stub of the cigar into the street as the last of the ambulances left Washing ton Park. Then he smiled at his partner.

"The Black Mask Killer is back in town. This time, we're gonna take care of business."


End file.
